Primer
by Ill Ame
Summary: Matt doesn't remember much about his family. He won't paint over his past but he's not going to fight for it either. This is a quick story about color, among other things. MattxMello.


Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own these characters.

Notes: This was written on a request for cute M/M and was extremely rushed, but I tried my best. They're always cute in a sort of bitchy, dysfunctional, foul-mouthed way, right?

**Primer**

Matt leans back on his elbows and watches the smoke above his head fade into the clouds. "My dad was a painter," he says.

"Yeah?" Mello's jerky today. Sometimes every move he makes is smooth elegance – he can slide along Matt's skin and down his throat like rain, a waterfall – but now he's all jitters and bottled energy, one leg jiggling on the apartment steps. "You remember that?" he asks.

Matt just shrugs. "I was around for a while before Wammy's."

"So, what," Mello stares back at him skeptically. "He painted houses? Nice life."

Matt shakes his head. "No, I mean an _artist_," he says. "Abstract stuff. Didn't sell much, though. My mom bitched him out all the time. Called him useless, her working two jobs while he spent the day messing around in the basement. And my big sister was having problems in school, so-"

Mello cuts him off. "You didn't have a sister," he says bluntly, sneering, and he's got the most condescending arm-cross Matt's ever seen.

Matt snorts – he'd be offended if he had the strength, but he's tired right now and only a little annoyed, so his next drag is as slow and even as the last. He breathes out before answering. "You don't know that. Her name was Sarah. She had freckles and she named our pet cat Sammie, but she always forgot to take care of him. My mom didn't like that either."

"A cat too? You're making all this up," Mello says, glaring now, what the hell got up his ass?

Well, okay, Matt knows what's wrong, but it isn't so bad, really, a fucking favor and Mello has the nerve to be angry.

"No," Matt answers, lightly defensive.

"You're making this shit up," Mello says again, swiping Matt's cigarette. Mello was never a smoker, but Matt's noticed that sometimes he just needs something to do with his hands. Painted nails and chocolate stains, this routine shouldn't feel so goddamn familiar.

The truth is, Matt doesn't remember much about his family. But he knows his mother was warm when she held him, and he remembers the scent of turpentine around the house, the spots of color on his father's clothing, a small, striped kitten that fit inside his sister's hands. Because he's not sure who has the right end of this argument, he lets the subject drop and instead says, "I'm not apologizing."

"I'd noticed," Mello snaps back.

Matt figures that most people would be frustrated coming home to see their shit spread all over the sidewalk and their apartment reeking of fresh paint. But it's his apartment, and he can do what he damn well likes with it. Not his problem if Mello tries to act like he bloody owns the place.

Matt rolls on his side and steals his cigarette back. "I don't get why you're so upset," he mutters.

Mello laughs the way he does when he's not actually amused, tilts his head to the sky, taps one heel on the ground – _click, click, grind_ – yeah, he's pissed. "Matt, this has got to be the worst idea you've had since that time you got stoned and tried to marry your Xbox."

Matt frowns and sits up again. "That never happened," he says.

Mello lifts his eyebrows. "You told me about it yourself, dumbfuck." He pauses to stare darkly at the laptops, portable furniture, and various kitchen appliances lying on the pavement in front of them. "Listen," he continues. "Move this shit somewhere safe. I'll show you the right way to repaint a fucking apartment," and he stands like he's been shocked, marches straight through the door. Each step is a whipcrack. Mello's grinning. Oh fuck.

--

Every wall is a different color. Stark white gets boring after a while, and Matt's never been a fan of boring, so he drove out to the nearest hardware store that morning, bought a few paint cans, and set to work. He'd expected to be done by the time Mello's plane came in from L.A., but the fumes gave him a headache and his motivation disappeared with the job half-finished. He'd smoked away the rest of the afternoon.

Until Mello showed up on his motorbike and got that tight-lipped glare, wouldn't lower his voice below a shout for the next twenty minutes. Fucking drama queen.

There's a streak of red across one yellow wall in the bedroom. "What the hell are you doing?" Matt asks.

"Take after your mother, do you?" Mello says with a sneer. He's got the offending paintbrush in his right hand, accompanied by another dipped in blue for the left.

"Seriously, what the fuck? I spent a lot of time on that wall." Matt doesn't really care too much, he's just kind of confused. Mello does that to people sometimes.

"Mmmm," Mello says. "Too bad." And he slaps the blue brush down. Little speckles of paint form a halo around the mark he's just made. "Your face is next if you don't help me or back off," he hisses.

So maybe this is some kind of stress relief, and if it stops Mello from breaking things then it's fine in Matt's book. The walls aren't that important. He picks up another brush, scoops up a glob of green paint, and – then again, he might be a little pissed himself- what the fuck gives Mello the right- because who does he think owns the goddamn deed to this apartment – dumps it in Mello's hair.

Mello turns slowly, his eyes a pair of sparking slits.

--

It's not about redecorating after a while, and maybe it never had been. Matt's got thick red lines all over his chest, purple criss-crossing his back, and Mello's started to leave yellow palm-prints on everything he touches. They wind up against the wall, shirts off, and Matt licks a green stripe off Mello's cheek, one hand down his pants, wondering if it'll make him sick.

They collapse on a pile of old sheets in the middle of the room, short of breath and coated in rainbows. The job's still only half done, but the place sure looks a lot more interesting. Colorful.

Mello frowns at his paint-stained pants. "Fuck," he says. "You're doing my laundry."

Matt just laughs. "Your ass left a print on the wall."

Mello jabs Matt in the side with one of his pointy fucking elbows until he stops snickering. They lie silent for a long time. Matt can hear Mello's breathing slow and maybe, maybe he's finally calm. Matt taps his fingers lightly against the back of Mello's hand to get his attention. He grunts softly in recognition.

"Hey," Matt whispers. The only glow that comes through the window is from streetlamps and headlights, but he can still make out a few splatters of orange on the ceiling. He runs his fingers over the yellow marks on his arms. "I painted the car, too."


End file.
